


nevermore to leave here

by Polyhexian



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Multi, POV Second Person, PTSD, Polyamory, Sparkmerging, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, and god what is WRONG with this boy, sexual trauma talk, this is a whirl fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:21:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24242722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polyhexian/pseuds/Polyhexian
Summary: There's a lot of things you like. Booze, guns, blood, fifth century binoptic timepieces, Earth-made commercials, the star patterns in the Andromeda system, but love? Nothing. You could live without all of it. You have lived without all of it. And you know, because you have basic pattern recognition skills, you will live without it all again. It's better not to be tethered to anything, or anyone.You have sparkmerged before, though.
Relationships: Cyclonus/Tailgate/Whirl (Transformers)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 111





	1. A remnant trace, a glimpse of you

**Author's Note:**

> Fic theme song is "Killing Kind" by Marianas Trench :3c
> 
> ALSO I keep forgetting to add this but I have a transformers blog now. Whirlibirb @ Tumblr. Come talk to me about whirl

For as long as you have lived, you have never been loved. 

Nor have you loved, either, so that's fair enough. It's actually pretty difficult to get this far in life without indulging once or twice. But you're a hard worker. 

There's a lot of things you like. Booze, guns, blood, fifth century binoptic timepieces, Earth-made commercials, the star patterns in the Andromeda system, but love? Nothing. You could live without all of it. You _have_ lived without all of it. And you know, because you have basic pattern recognition skills, you will live without it all again. It's better not to be tethered to anything, or anyone. 

You have sparkmerged before, though. 

A few times, really. The first wasn't as big a deal as it could have been. It was a long time ago, before the war, but not before they fucked you up so badly you never got unfucked. Your cellmate after Impactor, a much more mellow fellow. His name had been Gearstorm, a green and grey crane in for tax fraud of all things. He'd never done it before and you'd never done it before and you really didn't have anything else to do, so you'd done it.

He'd hated it. "Is that what it's supposed to be like?" He had said. His voice shook. He held his arms over his chest as if he were afraid you might tear them away. "That hurt," he had said. It hadn't hurt you. You hadn't known what was wrong. Gearstorm died later, a Decepticon casualty. You had seen his name on a list of dailies, and that had been that. 

The second time was far after that. The event had shaken you. Kept your legs open and your chest closed for awhile after that, but, inevitably, the draw to connect with others resurfaced. A fluke, it must have been. You and Hubcap went for it, before a Wrecker mission. Very all or nothing. You hadn't gotten as far as a real merge though. The second he saw your spark he seemed alarmed. It was too dark, too fast moving. It looked wrong. Ugly, though he hadn't said so, concerning, which he had. See a doctor, he had suggested.

You had tried one final time. Off world, down a backstreet in some gritty organic planet you were refueling on. You'd just been looking for a drink and a mech friendly bar. You hadn't expected to find a nail loitering about. He hadn't seen a Cybe in ages and was down for some no strings fooling around. You don't even remember his name now, just that he was pink-red and silver, and spoke softly. The merge had felt fine to you. His spark was so gentle, as beautiful as sparks should be. Normal. But again, something was wrong. With you. He'd stopped so abruptly and pushed you away. You remember your claws wavering in front of you, concerned you'd hurt him somehow while he panted and trembled and finally he had looked at you.

"Why are you so _angry_?" He had asked. "I don't know," you had said, stupidly, "a lot of reasons." And then you left.

You never tried again.

It only took the other two tries to understand what you had learned the first time and should probably have always known. Something was _wrong_ with you. Something had _always_ been wrong with you. At your deepest point, your most vulnerable space it became clear, too obvious to miss for anyone else. You were fucked up, and you'd fuck them up too if they came near. 

It's not the kind of hurting you enjoy making happen. You stick to the guns.

Chest shut, legs open. Words to live by. And boy, did you. People find you obnoxious as hell, but you find people are significantly more tolerant of you when they've fucked you at least once. It lets you get away with a lot, and you love getting away with a lot. 

Your chest is shut, your legs are open. Cyclonus's knees are on your shoulders and they keep tightening around your neck as he writhes and squirms under your attention, your spike buried in his valve, his thighs coated with transfluid. He looks like a mess. You both look like a mess. You all look like a mess. You can't believe his ego can stand it (though, maybe that's just his fetish, he's weird enough for that).

"Ahhn- Cyclonus, are you getting _distracted_?" Tailgate moans, sitting on Cyclonus's face. You love this vantage point, you get a real show, from Cyclonus's valve around your spike and his own leaking member twitching against his abdomen to Tailgate's, chubby and dribbling pre-fluid, his valve absolutely gushing over Cyclonus's chin. If you thought the jet's thighs were a mess, _hoof_.

"Aw, what, is he slowing down? Cyclonus, you're not losing _focus_ , are you?" you pant, and force your hips to stop their desperate, frantic thrusting, slowing with a few terse, abortive jerks of your hips to hilt in deep and roll your pelvis, stretching his entrance the way you know makes him crazy.

"I think he _is_ , Birdy!" Tailgate teases, even though you can already see Cyclonus has resumed eating the minibot out with his previous vigor.

"Well that won't _do,_ " you shake your head, digging your claws into his hip joints, refusing to let him pull back and get any friction at all, "Cyc-cyc, are you paying more attention to _me_ than your _Junxy_? That's so rude! What should I do, legs? Do you think he needs to give you some _proper_ attention to make it up to you?" 

Tailgate gasps and groans and arches his back when Cyclonus manages to do _something_ that really gets to him, before he doubles over, flats of his palms on his Conjunx's chest. "Ah- I think he's right, Cyc, I think you should make it up to me by-" 

He doesn't get to finish. You feel Cyclonus start to pull away and you give him a hand, grabbing him under his knees and shoving so he can use the momentum to flip Tailgate over and crawl over him, growling like an organic. You sit back, setting your aft on your ankles while you wait politely. This is probably the time most people would just jerk it until they were done, but, that remained sort of an issue for you, and they knew that. Good friends don't leave their friends hanging with a boner at the end of a good frag session, at least.

Tailgate giggles deliriously in delight as he's conquered and mechhandled and pushed about. Cyclonus is always so gentle with him, you think he gets a rush from getting to push him past his threshold for gentleness. He's arching and pornstar moaning the second Cyc has his spike in him, and he cycles his chest plating open. They love merging when they finish. Can't get enough of living in each other's heads, the lovebirds. Positively disgusting how romantic it is.

"Whirl-" You can't help but shiver when Tailgate gasps your name, "C'mere, I can't reach you."

He's a good berth partner, always keeping you in mind, which you definitely appreciate. You're cool to wait your turn, but he doesn't usually make you. You avert your optics away from his spark, and Cyclonus's too, even as you scoot forward toward them.

You get the feeling Tailgage wouldn't be able to focus if he was thinking about you sitting over there, being neglected while they went balls deep in eachothers circuitry, and he _has_ to at least try to jerk you off to ease that distraction, but he's at least pretty good at it. Good multitasker, somehow. 

His hand doesn't reach for your interface equipment though, like it usually does, his fingers brush across the glass of your cockpit, gliding over flat panels and taught seamlines, reverent and beckoning as he smooths his palm up to where it obviously seperates.

"Open up?" he asks, visor bright as he gazes up at you, Cyclonus's face buried in his neck cables. 

You freeze.

You really are trying to think about it, consider the offer, but your brain just keeps cycling through "wait, what? Why? Am I supposed to carress my own corona while they merge? Am I merging with _them_? What does he want?" And faltering at the actual point of decision making, and you've definitely taken to long to respond because his visor dims a bit, a curious little frown. 

"Sorry-" he says, smoothing his hand back down, bizarrely earnest even as he bounces under Cyclonus's heavy thrusting, "It's okay. You don't have to."

You don't like that. It's pity or compassion or whatever and he's literally supposed to be getting plowed right now and _he's_ distracting himself. You stubbornly grab his hand where it rests against your cockpit and drag it down to your spike, still neglected, and mercifully, he doesn't make you fight or argue to talk about feelings right now and just gives you a solid handy while the love of his life drills his brains out into the berth. 

You keep your optic shut when their sparks touch and when his hand goes rigid and squeezes hard you overload good, coating his forearm. 

There's a whole ritual at this point. You start to roll back, strutless, and Cyclonus tugs at you stubbornly until you curl up with them instead, pulled tight around him. He's a jet, so his main source of cooling an overheated engine is air through his turbines, but that generally entails him moving. He doesn't cool down well when he's sitting still, not without kicking on the jet engines, and it's a little rude to do that in the middle of the night. They _have_ neighbors. You, however, have a VTOL system, which is much quieter, and not exclusively directed towards your internals. You're a nice big ice pack after a good lay, as it were.

He sighs into the contact, metal pinging and ozone in the air, condensation collecting on paint transfer coated plating. 

"Cyc!" Tailgate giggles, tugging at Cyclonus's arms even as he peppers his lover in kisses, "Lemme go, I gotta get a towel!" 

Very courteous of him. His Junxy is busy trying quietly not to overheat and you're busy quietly trying to keep him from overheating, so he skitters off to grab a towel to clean up with so the two of you don't have to move. You feel guilty for always really enjoying this part, you don't think you're supposed to. He clambers back up on the berth and kicks your thighs back open so he can wipe you down, dig into gummy transformation seams and get out transfluid before it starts to dry and get gross and crusty. You're definitely going to need a shower, but maybe a nap first. 

It's weird that it doesn't feel particularly sexy, like, it definitely doesn't get you revving for another go, even as he passes it over your valve or your spike, but you still like it. You don't really know what that means. He gets Cyclonus next, before himself, and finally he clambers up to join you in the cool down cuddle party. 

"Are you okay?" he asks you, hands on your windshield again. 

"Hm?" you mumble, "Yeah."

"Sorry," he says, as if he didn't already say that earlier when he didn't even have to in the first place, "I didn't mean to put you on the spot like that."

"Ain't nothin' but a thing, huh," you shrug and sigh, "I don't do that."

"Oh!" Tailgate's visor blinks, and it's so cute, he's absolutely adorable, "Okay. We won't do that then." 

You snort. That was easy to talk him out of. 

"Do what?" Cyclonus asks, finally coming out of his cozy over heated afterglow to poke and prod at what the hell _you_ two were doing when he wasn't looking. 

"Gators was angling for a game of find the Junxy's spark in the three way," you chuckle, looking away to read your HUD while you fiddle with your fan speed, since he's talking again. 

"What?" they both say at the same time. Adorable! They're so in sync. 

"You know, mixin' up your spark merge, 'n all," you mumble, squinting at the little red numbers. You can probably turn off tertiary fans, now, at least, they're not really doing anything but they're also not very loud, so it's not like it would really matter anyway, "You know, find the bae in the hurricane and all."

"That's _not_ what I was asking you for at _all!_ " Tailgate exclaims, sounding particularly horrified, and you really want to frown at that. You close your HUD and look back down at him. What is he so upset about? It's hardly an _embarrassing_ kink to be accused of having when he's already _this far_ into whatever the hell you guys are doing. There's probably a name for it. It's not really a cuck thing, like, you're all here at the same time. 

"Nah?" you sniff, "My b, then. I ain't a mind reader, you know."

"Birdy," Tailgate says, and suddenly he sounds like he's using his "I think you're being suicidal/self-destructive/manic as fuck" voice again for some reason and you think you have to rewind this conversation, because you don't even know what the hell set him off this time, "That was your _go to_? That was your _first guess_?"

"Gently," Cyclonus murmurs, and that only confuses and annoys you more. It's really cute how in sync they are, finishing each other's sentences and all that, but it gets on your nerves when they're both on the same page about something and you can't figure out what it is. You hate being left out of the loop. It makes you feel slow and you hate feeling slow. 

"What?" you grunt, "What are you two "gently"-ing about?"

Tailgate sits up, leaning over you, giving you those big sad turbofox optics he knows always make him get his way when he wants something. "Well- Birdy, you know how we've kinda- we've talked about how sometimes you tend to assume the worst in people?"

"Uh-huh," you narrow your optic, suspiciously.

His optics are searching, sad, and you can't even parse why. What the hell is on his mind? What is this conversation about? Everything was fine a few minutes ago. You don't know what changed, why are you talking about feelings?

"What do you want from us?" Tailgate asks, finally. You tilt your head to the side, confused. You've still got your arms wrapped around his Conjunx, spilling cool air into his frame, and you've still got both of their transfluid in the transformation seams between your legs. What does he mean what do you want from them? 

"This?" you answer, because you have to say something, "Is this not good, suddenly? I'm not following. If you want me to go, I can go." You'd rather not go, but you will, if they tell you to. You always keep that thought in the back of your mind, just in case.

"No!" he says quickly, really suspiciously quickly. "We don't want you to go. The opposite, definitely. What I mean, Whirl, is- is that…" sad optics again, searching your lack of expression for something. He ain't gonna find it, whatever the pit it is. "I can never tell what you're thinking. Sometimes I think I do, and then you say something crazy like that, and I always realize how much worse it is than I thought."

"Are you breaking up with me?" you ask. You aren't even dating, whatever you guys are doing isn't dating, but it's regular. This seems to catch him off guard and he sits back a bit.

"No, I'm-" he pauses. "Do you _want_ us to break up with you?" 

You consider it. "No."

"I guess that's my question, Birdy," he sighs, finally, leaning down to bump his forehead against the top of your mask, a gentle, comforting gesture that seems antithetical to your shape and reputation to engage in, "I don't know what you're thinking. I don't know what you want."

"I don't think I'm this complicated," you huff, "I say exactly what I'm thinking. I say exactly what I want. We have fun! I don't wanna get in the way though, if I'm in the way, you can tell m-"

"Shh, shh, no, no, Whirl, you aren't in the way," he mumbles, but he sounds a little demoralized, sighing. His optics dart to Cyclonus's- he's awful at not making it obvious they're on private comms. It's annoying, but it makes him easy to trust, at least. He was lying his aft off when you met him, and it was never not obvious. He's a terrible liar, so you can always trust he's being honest with you. You'd be able to tell if he wasn't. 

Cyclonus shifts and Tailgate scoots out of the way as the jet moves up and turns around to face you, holding your helm in both servos, warm palms holding your optic steady to look at him, thumbs rubbing gentle circles into your plating. 

"You can be so hard on yourself," he murmurs, optics doing the same searching thing Tailgate's were. "Do you not believe you are worthy of love?"

Difficult question to answer. Obviously, no. But you're not, like, stupid. You can't say that. It's edgy, it's pathetic, it's pitiful. You don't like being pitied. But you also don't want to lie to him for some reason. The idea puts a weird twist in your ugly spark.

"Listen, if you _really_ wanna sparkmerge _this badly,_ " you say, changing the subject, "I'll do it, I'm warning you, though, damn things as volatile as the rest of me. I don't get a lot of repeat customers."

He smooths his hands down and over your chest firmly, yet with surprising gentleness for someone with claws as sharp as your own. "No," Cyclonus says, "I only want from you what you want to give me."

"I'm telling you you can have it," you say, frustrated. 

"You know we do this with you because we like you, right?" Tailgate asks, leaning back against the headboard, "We don't want anyone else here. It's just you. You know that, right?" 

"Well, duh," you scoff. 

"Can you tell me why you think that is?" Cyclonus asks, "in your own words?"

"Weird request, but aight," you shrug, "I _am_ your best friend, and you know I ain't gonna judge you for nothin'. You can trust I'm not gonna make it weird."

"What would make it weird?" Tailgate asks.

"You know, them love triangles and slag, relationship drama. You know. You gotta trust somebody you and Conjunx are fragging together. Nobody catching the wrong feelings for nobody else."

"So it would be the wrong feelings- to feel feelings for you?" Tailgate pries. What is this? You glance between him and Cyclonus, and wait to see if he seems upset, but he doesn't.

"Well, yeah. You guys did rites and everything."

They exchange one of those "private comms" looks again. 

"Y'all keep doing that and I'm _going_ to start hacking your frequency," you huff, irritated. Cyclonus rolls his optics and turns back to you, putting a hand back on the side of your head near your audial, soothing.

"Apologies," he says, "It's just delicate. We worry about upsetting you."

"I keep telling y'all you ain't gonna upset me. If you want me to go, I'll go, if you want me to merge, I'll merge. Stop giving me this weird delicate run around and just tell me what you're trying to say, though. I got rocks for brains and I can't suss out what it is you're trying to get me to understand unless you come out and say it."

"Promise not to have a big, dramatic meltdown and run off, okay?" Tailgate prompts.

"That's not like me at all," you say indignantly. He gives you a _look_. "Promise."

"I had thought it was clear, from the start, our intentions toward you, Whirl, were not casual," Cyclonus says. Your optic snaps back down to him.

"Huh?"

"I'd like to do rites with you, someday, if you wanted that," Tailgate supplied, "You know. The three of us."

You stare at him. "What? You don't have to do rites just to keep me around."

Those damn sad optics again! "Sometimes I wish I could see the world through your optic," Tailgate sighs, "But it seems like it kinda sucks, so not really."

"Are you intentionally misinterpreting everything we say about this," Cyclonus asks, "Or do your self esteem issues _really_ run that deep?"

"What does that mean?" 

"Does wanting to keep you as a consistent part of our relationship really strike you as something casual and non-romantic?" Cyclonus prompts further. 

"You like what you like!" you argue, and Tailgate groans, sliding down the headboard. 

"New strategy," the minibot says, taking a deep invent, "Imagine this scenario. We literally never interface again. Bam. Just like that. Hope you had a good overload, cuz we are done now."

"Uh, okay-"

"What happens?" he asks, in earnest, "What happens with us?" 

"Um, I dunno," you say, "Not much, I guess? Do we still hang out?"

"I would still enjoy your company," Cyclonus adds.

"Uh huh," Tailgate nods, "Even like this."

You look down at how entangled you still are with Cyclonus, petting your helm like a tired turbofox, and look back up at Tailgate. "Okay." 

"Okay?" Tailgate repeats, "Okay! Whirl, is _that_ what you _want_? Do you _want_ to stay with us all the time? Do you _want_ to keep being like, this close? All the time?"

You blink at him. "Of course I do."

"Has it occurred to you, Birdy, that you _want_ a relationship? Like, with us?" He seems exasperated. 

"But you did the rites," you repeat, "with each other."

"And we can do them again! With you!" Tailgate runs his little hands over his helm, "Whirlibird, I hate spooking you, I really do, you're way more sensitive than you think you are, but we _love_ you and I don't know how to make you understand that without giving you a panic attack!"

You think you might be having a panic attack. 

"Oh-" you immediately recoil, physically, emotional, pushing back and immediately tumbling off the side of the berth. 

"Whirl!" Cyclonus sounds concerned, and you think you actually did clunk your head, so maybe he's right to be, "Please calm down!"

"I'm sorry!" you say, "I didn't mean to give you the wrong idea, I wasn't trying to frag this up, I swear, I-"

"Birdy, you _promised_ not to freak out and run off, remember? Okay?" Tailgate says, sounding deeply stressed as he leans over the side of the berth to look at you, "Deep invents, okay? Do you want to stay on the floor?"

"I wanna stay on the floor," you repeat.

"Okay. You can stay on the floor."

"Cool. Okay. I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" Cyclonus asks, folding his elbows and leaning his chin on them. Your knees are on the edge of the berth and the ceiling is spinning above you.

"It's- I'm grateful for what I got, it's good, I ain't trying to frag it all up for once," you explain, "You guys have gone through a lot and I wasn't trying to make it more-"

"You've been through a lot, too," Taiglate says, "we've been through a lot, with you, too."

"I'm supposed to be your friend," you say, "Supportive. Not frag up your relationship."

"I believe you make our relationship better," Cyclonus says, very gently, "That is why include you in it. Not out of pity."

"It's-" you eye the door, feeling tense, and you wish you hadn't promised not to bolt, but you did, so you don't, "I know what this is supposed to be. I know what I am."

"What are you?" Cyclonus asks. 

"I'm- I'm not _right_ , Cyc," you say, in earnest, "I _know_ that. I don't want to ask anyone else to deal with that. That's for me. It ain't on no one else." 

"You don't have to ask," he says, shifting to reach a hand for you, slowly, giving you ample time and space to pull away before he touches your helm again, and you let it sink into his palm. "We'll have you as you are."

"It's okay, Birdy," Tailgate soothes, petting your leg, still on the berth, "It's okay to be calm. Talk me through it. What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking I feel like I overstepped," you admit, "Somewhere along the way I tricked y'all and I didn't mean to. I'm trying to be better than that."

"If you've tricked anyone, it's only yourself," Cyclonus murmurs, voice a gentle rumble, "Into believing you are not able to love and be loved." 

You shiver and flinch. The whole sentence makes your plating crawl. You don't like thinking about this stuff. 

"Whirl. Would you like to come back up, now?" 

You online your optic and fidget, before nodding. Cyclonus helps you clamber back up before wrapping his arms around you, pulling your helm into his shoulder. Tailgate crawls up against your back, smoothing his hands over your armour. You feel your fuel tank start to uncoil from the painful knot it was tied in. 

"I don't want to fuck this up," you say, because you don't know what else to say, "I like things how they are."

"What if you like things more?" Tailgate asks, wrapping his arms around your neck from behind, "What if things could be even better?"

"That's greedy," you mumble, "I can't."

"It's not greedy. You're being given it. Love, I mean. For free."

"Think about it, won't you?" Cyclonus says. "Don't say anything you don't mean because you feel like you have to."

"Alright," you mumble, relieved to have an out. You don't like talking about this stuff. You don't like thinking about it. 

"Rest now," Cyclonus rumbles, "We can talk about it again later."

"Whenever you're ready," Tailgate adds, pushing his faceplate against the back of your neck, "And… it's okay if that's never. It really is." 

"Okay," you say, another pitiful response. Never isn't an option. You're going to have to come up with a response. You're going to have to think of something. You're going to have to talk about it.

Later.


	2. One for the memory, two for the pain

Morning comes bleary, still entangled in a knot of warm limbs. You have ship duty today so you actually need to get up and there's no way to get out without waking anyone up, as much as you want to. You weigh your options and consider skipping today, but now that Rodimus has sussed out you kind of like him and wouldn't shoot him for annoying you, he really likes annoying you. He would definitely come back to ask why you're moping. Only he would come by _your_ room and not the room you're _in_ and then he'd _ping_ you and realize where you _are_ and then it would be so awkward, and people would talk, not much about you but mostly about _them_ and… 

You finally sigh and wriggle your way out of the hug party. Cyclonus doesn't stir- a blessing, he used to be as light a sleeper as you are, paranoid and twitchy, but now you're slipping away without pulling him away from recharge. You're glad for it. 

"Mm, are you on rotation today?" Tailgate yawns, sitting up. He looks very alluring like this, the way he's turned, the curve of his waist and it makes you want to crawl back in the berth with him and have sleepy hazy morning sex, warm and lazy, but, again, Rodimus. 

"Yeah," you say, vocalizer low, "See you after?"

"See you after, Birdy," he says. He doesn't have a mouth, but you can hear his smile in his voice anyway. It's an acquired skill. You give him a wave as you pick up your stuff off the floor and pack your cockpit full again and slip out the door. He cuddles back up with Cyclonus to get some more rest. 

The hallway is empty when you enter it. It usually is around this hour. The ship is set to Iacon time, but a lot of folk are on their own schedules anyway, but the bar keeps regular Iacon work hours, so at least that keeps most people around the same internal time. Still, it's a bit early for your shift, you need to run downstairs first, and even Rodimus would understand if _that's_ why you were late. 

You stop by the washracks first, and then grab a palette of scrap metal from the incinerator before you head down to the oil reservoir. 

She's waiting for you when you get there. She really likes schedules and she knows your rotation pretty well by now. She pulled herself out of the oil halfway, like some kind of metal plesiosaur dog, wagging her tail and chittering as the door slides open.

"Hey there, Sparky," you coo at her and she kicks her back legs, scooting onto the deck and turning into an oversized turbofox to bowl you over and lick your face. "Alright, alright, I missed you, too, get offa me!" you chuckle, pushing her off so you can sit up. 

She sits back on her haunches and her optics are full of joy. She's happy to see you. She's always happy to see you. You consider this for a moment, and then grab a piece of metal from the palette and toss it to her. She jumps up to snap it out of the air and shred it like paper, then spins in place, wagging her tail again.

"You're a funny thing, you know that?" you ask her. She tilts her head to the side, and then her shape flickers, and she morphs into Getaway again.

"Why him again?" you ask, curiously. She folds her legs, criss cross applesauce, very neat, and you hand her another piece of metal. She shrugs. "Hrm," you sigh. She nibbles on the metal, even though Getaway never had a mouth. She just sort of absorbs it through her face mask, still looking up at you curiously. 

"Funny thing?" she repeats, in Getaway's voice. You really don't like hearing it, don't like looking at him, but you still haven't figured out what her fixation is on him, other than he's a dude she ate, and you'd rather figure that out than make her stop.

"I mean, you're just different, like me," you elaborate. "Do you want to move upstairs yet?"

She shakes her head and holds out one hand, palm flat, asking for another piece. You grab one and hand it to her. 

"I'm supposed to be thinkin' about love and stuff," you admit, "And _that's_ the real funny thing."

"Funny thing," she repeats, nodding. You don't know how much she understands. At least a little, but you don't know how much is a language barrier and how much is a difference in comprehension itself. It's a slow process, working with her, but very rewarding. 

"What is love, anyway, huh?" You muse out loud, "I don't know why things can't just stay the way they are. I don't know why I gotta suss out my feelings. It's gross."

"Gross," she repeats. 

"You ever gonna have boy trouble?" You grab her another piece of scrap, a nice bit of copper tubing- she loves copper- and she perks up, eyes locked on it. "Come on, gimme someone else," you say, "how about you try someone you like, huh?" She eyes it, optics hungry, and you know she could just take it from you. Instead she flicks her optics down to you, squints, and then shakes like sand and turns into you, instead. 

"You!" she says, very chipper.

"Hey, that's real good! That _is_ me!" You laugh, and toss her the pipe. It goes right down the helm where your optic is. Weird to look at, but not the strangest thing you've seen. "If you ever feel like movin' upstairs, we can raise some real hell together." She mimics your laughter. 

"You're a good kid," you tell her, ruffling the top of her helm. She ducks forward into it and can't help herself, snapping right back into a big turbofox, wagging her tail. 

"Good kid, good kid!" she repeats. Her mouth shouldn't be able to move like that, with that big jaw. It's a little unnerving, but you're getting used to the weirdness that is Her. She's big and scary and dangerous, but a little attention and just like that, she's putty in your claws. She seems so happy, and you wonder if she will ever explain why she hasn't turned back into a real scraplet colony.

"I wonder if you're gonna love somebody someday," you sigh, and grab another hunk of raw Metallica to pass her. She takes it in her mouth, but doesn't eat it, sitting back thoughtfully before she turns back into getaway and holds it in her hands, staring at it with an expression of deep thought. "What?" you prompt.

"Love somebody," she repeats, looking back up at you, "Someday." 

"Should I take that as a yes?" you chuckle, but she's not laughing. She seems very earnest. Her optics watch you, wide and pleading with you to understand something you don't. 

"Love somebody," she repeats again. 

You blink at her, and then soften. "Yeah. I'm a big fan of you, too, kid." She swells up, looking happy, and you try not to let your plating crawl when she hugs you, still wearing her Getaway skin. 

You give her a pat and then kick the palette so it rolls forward off the dock and into the oil tank. She gasps and turns back into a turbofox as she skitters across the dock and leaps in after it.

"I gotta run!" you call, and you know if she's got any nanites above the surface (and she always does) she can hear you, "I'll bring you another one tomorrow, huh?" 

You head back upstairs 

* * *

Rodimus tries not to give you boring jobs. He knows if he does you either won't do them, or you'll do them badly. Usually he gives you something with manual labour, like riveting outside or working in the engine but today he's got you in the bridge shooting asteroids out of the way. It's a little engaging, at least, like, you do actually have to have decent aim, but it's so below your level you still find it really boring. 

It's hard not to get distracted when Rodimus and Megatron start bickering again, like they always do. It's way more entertaining.

"Aw, come on, the probe said there was energon!" Rodimus whines, "We can at least send a _scouting_ party." 

"The whole planetoid is lava," Megatron scoffs, "Even _you_ would struggle with _that_!" 

You wonder how the old man feels with you in here. He didn't take the bait the time you tried to goad him into killing you. All you did was lose an arm in his chest and ruin your day, but otherwise he's gone out of his way to ignore you the entire time you've lived on the same ship. 

"I would not," Rodimus pouts, "and besides the lava, there's _life_ down there! Like, living in the lava! Don't you think that's cool, Megs? Don't you wanna see what they look like?"

"Organic life," Megatron says, rolling his optics, "I do not."

"You're no fun," Rodimus moans, leaning over the back of his wheelie chair and scooting away. It really is a slow day. "It's the first inhabited planetoid we've found in weeks." 

"We'll find one that won't kill everyone that sets foot on it eventually."

"Have either of y'all ever had a bad merge before?" you ask, because they're just repeating themselves at this point. They both snap their helms up.

"Not with him!" Rodimus yells, indignant immediately.

"I mean in general," you snort, taking out another asteroid and double checking the left gun calibrations.

"Uh," says Rodimus, "I guess."

You don't look up, but Megatron doesn't respond. "What went wrong?" You pry further.

"Why do you wanna know?" Rodimus asks, sounding offended. 

"Just curious," you say, "just shootin' the shit."

"Uh…" Rodimus trails off, awkwardly. Out of the corner of your optic you see his dart towards Megatron, but the old warlord is still silent, and Rodimus hates silence. "I mean, yeah, I guess. I mean, everybody has at least one. It's personal and kind of embarrassing and stuff." 

You shoot down another asteroid. "You think somebody can just be, like, bad at it? Like just have a bad spark for sharing or whatever?" 

"I guess," Rodimus says. "Do, uh, you wanna talk about something, man?" 

"Yeah, why is the left canon pulling to the right so badly?" you complain, gesturing at the display, "I think somebody's knocked the damn thing out of alignment, I can't get a good shot with it." 

"I'll send someone to take a look at it," Megatron says, turning away to tap his audial with one hand. You go back to shooting asteroids in silence while Megatron and Rodimus go back to arguing about nothing.

* * *

You ping Tailgate when your shift ends and he sends a pingback immediately, and you look up at the roof, orienting his location code. Swerve's, obviously. You take the elevator.

You hesitate outside the doors and wonder if maybe you should just go back to your room and wallow in your thoughts and not deal with _this_ , but the door opens as Nautica leaves and you step inside anyway. Tailgate pretty much immediately notices you, waving at you from their booth, his visor bright. Is he always this happy to see you? You're such a downer sometimes you can never imagine why.

You plop down in the booth next to Cyclonus and he shifts wordlessly to give you room. You don't pay attention to how Tailgate orders your favourite drink from a serving drone while you huff into your folded arms. 

"Long day?" he asks.

You grunt in response. Cyclonus puts a hand on your shoulder and your plating tingles beneath the contact. He doesn't like being touchy feely in public. It's a very intimate gesture from him. 

"Lot on your mind?" Tailgate asks. You don't respond, but he seems to take that as confirmation. "It's okay," he says, "you don't have to be ready yet. You can still hang out with us and just have a nice night, okay?" 

"I guess," you say, looking up when the serving drone returns with your nightmare fuel and phosphoric acid cocktail. 

"Rodimus sent out an email to everyone on board other than Megatron," Tailgate changes the subject, "Asking if anyone was lava-proof."

"Heh," you force yourself to chuckle, "Not me."

"You know, technically, I don't know I'm not lava-proof," Tailgate says.

"Let's not find out, love," Cyclonus says, his faceplate pulled into a smile. It's strange to see him smile. He's always smiling now, but he never used to. You honestly would have assumed when you met him that he couldn't, that the way his faceplate had been formed it just couldn't stretch like that at all. You had been wrong though. He always seems so happy these days. 

You sip your drink absently, watching Brainstorm show off something to Perceptor in the corner that sparks and shimmers and may or may not be on fire. At some point Cyclonus's hand moves from one shoulder to the other and you end up leaning against him, practically in his lap, and you know you're being very quiet tonight. A real downer. The guilt of it just makes you feel even more you shouldn't be here. Your fuel tank is in knots and you know there's only one thing that can make you feel better now.

"I'm gonna go hit the shooting range," you say, finishing off your drink and setting it back down as you shake out of Cyclonus's admittedly comforting grasp, "Get in some target practice before bed."

"Are you staying in your own room tonight?" Cyclonus inquires. You glance down at the table and then back up.

"Yeah," you say, finally. He looks disappointed. That's really stressing you out. "I'll catch you guys tomorrow." 

* * *

It's late. The shooting range is empty. Even if it hadn't been, generally speaking, your presence tends to clear it out. You are not well liked, and certainly not trusted when bored and shooty. 

You fish a handgun from your cockpit. You don't ever get a chance to use one of these little things, so you're rusty. You punch in your weapon id to the operating kiosk up front and a holodisplay target shimmers to life at the end of your booth. You take a shot. Right through the optics. Maybe you aren't that rusty after all. 

You adjust the target at the operating kiosk, making it smaller and pushing it back further, sliding the difficulty adjuster up as high as it will go. You miss when this was a challenge. It doesn't even engage you anymore. 

Your shot tears through the target's shoulder, and that's more like it, abject failure. You line up another shot.

The door opens. You don't bother looking to see who it is, once they notice you, they'll leave. You take another shot, and hit the target in the chest. Better, but you know from experience that the kind of mech that matches the blocky silhouette of the target don't keep irreplaceable machinery there. It's just a mesh wound. 

The stranger fiddles around with the kiosk behind you and a holo target comes online in the booth beside you. You take another shot and barely clip them. You're really distracted today. 

"Seems like you've got a lot on your mind," the most unexpected voice says in the booth next to you. You've never even _seen_ Drift hold a gun. Does he even know how to shoot?

The holo target beside yours crackles offline as its head explodes.

Yeah, okay, he knows how to use a gun. 

"You could say that," you say, lining up your shot more carefully this time. You hit the target in the neck. "Don't see you in here often. Or ever."

"I don't come often," he admits, waiting for the target to reset, "But I knew you were here."

"Oh, yeah?" you snort, "What're you looking for me then for, huh?" 

"I was asked to speak to you," he explains, "You raised some alarms this morning, the way you were talking." Another perfect headshot. What an afthole. You miss your target entirely, bullet barely whipping past it's head, but too far to the right.

"Pretty wild day when I managed to raise Rodimus's hackles," you laugh, "I wasn't trying to wig him out or nothin'. It was a genuine question."

" _Megatron_ asked me," he corrects, and fires another headshot as soon as his target resets, "You asked about a bad merge?" 

You adjust your grip in silence and then land a headshot, "Yeah."

"Why is that on your mind?" 

You watch the display reset and wonder if you should lie, if you should ignore him. "Never had a good one," you say instead.

"How come?" he asks. Another headshot. 

"Somethin's wrong with the damn thing," you shrug, and clip the target's neck, "Folk say mergin' with me hurts."

"Hm," headshot, "Been there."

Your aim shifts and you pause before realigning your shot. Hit the target in the leg. You're spectacularly off. "Everyone acts like it's so awesome and spiritual and whatever," you growl, "How come it's only shit for me, huh?" 

"Everybody else got their trauma from the war," he says, simply, "We were fucked from the start, though. No one enjoys their first taste of your life experience when it's been mostly bad."

Your shoulders sag and you take one more pitiful potshot that completely misses before you sigh and lean back against the wall of the booth. 

"That it then?" you ask, lowering your weapon and staring at your distant target, "I'm just fucked forever, the end?"

"If you don't do anything about it, yes."

"Well, that's depressing," you snort, "I was sort of expecting one of your hippy answers, like, let the guiding hand into your life to fix your broken spark or whatever."

"No," he says. Headshot. "Well, that may help, but only if it means something to you. I find solace in my faith. I doubt you would, though. You need to find something else."

"Like what?" you ask, leaning back against the booth wall behind you, "How do you stop being so fucked you hurt everyone who gets anywhere near you?"

You hear Drift holster whatever he's shooting with and step out of his booth, sliding into yours to lean against the opposite wall. His optics are oddly serious as they look up at you. "Practice, mostly."

"Practice?" you balk.

"You can't run from your problems if they're within you," he shrugs, "Wherever you go, there you are."

You mull that one over, fiddling with your handgun because you need to keep your claws busy suddenly, gaze averted. "That's just makin' my problems somebody else's problems."

"Have you not found anyone who _wants_ your problems to be their problems?" he asks, very pointedly. You stubbornly keep your optic on your gun. 

"I guess," you mumble.

"You're the only one who benefits from your self loathing."

Yikes. That one hits a nerve. You look up at him and notice suddenly he doesn't have a gun holster on him. You _heard_ him holster it. Was that gun _internal_? 

"I don't wanna be lectured," you snap.

"Don't be lectured, then," Drift shrugs, "Talk to a friend." 

You hesitate, feeling a little caught off guard. "Uh," you start, uncertainly, " _Are_ we friends?"

"I would say so."

You glance away, back at your target, flickering at the end of the range, "I mean. I haven't forgotten-"

"I wonder if you would have joined the 'Cons if you hadn't been the sap that beat Megatron in the first place," he muses, and you look back at him. He's got a weird little smirk.

"Yeah," you say. You've thought about it. You would have, back in the early days.

"Probably for the best then," he shrugs. 

You fidget, thoughtfully, trying to come up with a response that doesn't sound stupid, "It's like, I've got like a good thing going, you know? I'd like to not fuck this one up, too."

"If you think your partners would abandon you because of a bad merge, you don't really have such a good thing going," he comments. 

"Well- but I like it."

"You don't have a lot of faith in people, do you?" 

You shrug. 

"Try," he puts a hand on your arm, "It's not easy, but it's worth it." 

"What if I fuck it up again?" you mutter, shaking your head, "That's just gonna make me not wanna ever try again _more_."

"Alright, how about this, then," he leans back again, opening up his palms, "You know that _I_ know exactly what a bad merge entails. You know I know _exactly_ what I'm agreeing to. I'll merge with you, and even if it's no good, we will still be friends afterward." 

Your winglets snap up, "Huh?" 

"The offer is on the table," he says, and it's crazy how level his voice is with what he's talking about, "Do you require proof a bad merge won't end every interpersonal relationship you have? I will prove it to you."

"What about your Conjunx?" you ask, because that's easier to ask about that than anything he just said.

"It is understood."

"Oh," you say, but it's definitely not understood by you, "Hm." You look down at the floor, considering, then glance out of the booth at the door.

"Computer," Drift says, noticing your glance, "Lock shooting range doors."

The computer beeps. "Wait," you turn back to him, "How'd you do that? You ain't in the command structure no more."

His cool, calm expression finally breaks, and he grins at you deviously, "I do not believe either Megatron or Rodimus have noticed yet, but no one removed my designation as the ship's owner after I bought it." 

You titter with laughter, and then absolutely lose it. That's _hilarious_. And, also- a _secret_. He just told you a _secret_ . No one tells _you_ secrets. Your spark feels oddly warm.

"I- I don't actually think I need that," you admit, "But, uh, thanks for offering. I guess it does mean a lot."

He opens up his arms, inviting you in for a hug. _That's_ a new one. You don't give yourself time to think too hard about it and accept the offer, giving him a quick, one handed side hug. It feels good, even if you pull away quickly. 

"Good talk, then," he says, "I'll see you around, Whirl. Doors open." He directs the last bit upward and you hear the doors unlock. He pats your arm one more time and turns away, and leaves you alone in the shooting range. You don't move, leaning back against the wall, but one claw strays up to run along the transformation seams of your chest, where it whorls apart over your spark chamber. 

You open up your comm system and hail Cyclonus.

"Whirl," he says. His voice sounds warm, happy to hear from you, at the same time, oozing concern. "What do you need?"

"It alright if I come by?" you ask, before you lose your nerve. 

"Always," he says, immediately, "Are you coming by?"

You glance back up at the target and then drop your gun back in your cockpit, moving to the kiosk to shut everything down. "Yeah. Be by in a bit."


	3. I know my love can be the killing kind

You pace back and forth outside their habsuite. He definitely said you could come by, but it _is_ really late now, and you've been a total downer all day, so maybe it's the responsible adult decision to like, leave and do this tomorrow. Or maybe the better, hellbrain decision of "running out the nearest airlock and never talking to anyone again" is a better call. You've not decided yet.

You get a text from Tailgate.

[23:48:33] Tailgate: are you coming in? i can hear you out there

You stop walking and look at the door, fidgeting, anxious. No, not anxious. You don't get anxious. That's not you at all. 

[23:49:01] Whirl: sorry. im being weird  
[23:49:10] Tailgate: you can be weird. do you wanna come in and be weird in here? you dont have to  
[23:49:15] Whirl: no i wanna come in  
[23:49:22] Whirl: can i come in?  
[23:49:25] Tailgate: the doors unlocked. you can always come in.

You scissor your pincers together, staring at the door and then tap the keypad. The door slides aside. 

Cyclonus turns away from the computer terminal and toward you and Tailgate is sitting up in the berth, legs crossed, already looking toward you. You give a pitiful little wave and then step inside and let it swish shut behind you.

"Hey," you say, because it's not like there's anything else to say.

Tailgate doesn't say anything but reaches his little grabby hands up toward you, beckoning, and you've never been able to resist those. You sit down next to him and he immediately crawls directly into your lap to give you a hug. 

"You alright?" he asks.

"I'm okay."

"What changed your mind?"

"Oh, uh," you falter and wonder if that weird interaction is supposed to be secret, "I talked to Drift. About stuff, and things."

"Was it a good talk?" His visor is so bright, cyan and cerulean gleaming up at you and full of concern, affection, curiousity. 

"I think so," you tell him. You glance up at Cyclonus, and he's watching you, but his optics are moving in a way that makes you think he's writing someone a message. He's sort of friends with Drift and you wonder if he's asking what you talked about, if he's already assumed you're going to clam up.

One of Tailgate's hands reaches up to cup your helm, fingers brushing gently over plating as if you were something breakable. "We don't have to talk about anything you aren't ready to talk about," he says. 

"No, I- I wanna talk about it," you lean into his touch, comforted by it, when touching never used to be a source of comfort, "I mean, I don't wanna talk about it, but I want to have talked about it, and I don't want to not talk about it, if that makes sense, and I mean-"

"It makes sense," he cuts you off, because you're starting to manic babble, and he takes both of your claws in his hands and holds them between you, still sitting between your crossed legs.

"So it's- then- it's this thing that-" you start and stop a few times, uncertain how to make words do, "I don't want to fuck it up. I fuck things up." 

"You've done a very bad job of fucking things up so far," Tailgate says, "Considering."

Cyclonus stands up from his chair to join you, sitting cross legged on the berth like a bunch of program level sparklings, all talking about feelings. He sits far enough away that your knees aren't touching, but you scoot forward until they overlap.

"What am I supposed to do?" you ask, "What's the normal response to... to this?" 

"It does not much matter what is normal," Cyclonus rumbles, his voice low and soft, "It matters what you want, what is right for you, for us."

"Is there an us? When did us become a thing?" you scissor your claws together, wishing you had something tactile to distract you, a clock to break or build, "Did you _want_ us to be a thing or did it just happen?"

"I like us being a thing," Tailgate says, "Though I didn't really think about it until I realized it was. We wouldn't be the same without you, though. I like you being a part of 'us.'"

You fiddle with your wrist rotors, flipping the blade idly around the pivot, "It don't seem normal. It seems like I'm doing it wrong still." 

"Why does it feel that way?" Cyclonus prompts.

"Nobody else does… this."

"I feel sorry for them, then."

You look up at him and feel your tank flip. You don't know how to respond.

"Do you want something to fidget with?" Tailgate asks, and you look down at him and follow his optics to where you're picking at the paint on the inside of your rotors and pull your claws away.

"Uh," you say, but he doesn't wait for a more intelligent response and crawls out of your lap and rummages around in the terminal desk before he retrieves a spool of wire and brings it back. 

"Here, you can play with this," he says, popping the hollow center of the spool right over one of your pincers. You unwind it and start looping it around one of your other claws, idle tactile distraction.

"I want things to go on like they are," you admit, after Tailgate has crawled back up and into Cyclonus's lap, "I dunno. I like it. I like bein' here. I like you guys."

"I know, Whirl," Tailgate says, gently, "We can tell. You seem happier here. And we like you being happy! We want to keep you because we like you so much, and because you belong here. It's a good match."

You watch the wire wind around your claws for a moment, before you look back up, "Cyc?"

He gives you a very firm look, and then says, "I love you. That is what is important."

You can't help but flinch, pulling the wire taught. 

"And I love you, too," Tailgate adds, and then puts a hand over your claw, and you let the wire go slack, no longer tightening around your pincer. "You don't have to say it back. You don't have to be ready. You don't have to say or do anything you don't mean or don't want to. You have all the time you need to get there."

You stare down at his hand over yours, "There's- I mean. The other thing."

"What other thing?" Cyclonus frowns. Has he forgotten already?

"You know," you mutter, "Merging."

"Oh. Oh!" Tailgate puts both his hands on your chest over your cockpit, as if he were holding a door shut, "Whirl, you don't _ever_ have to-"

"But I _want_ to!" you admit, finally, even to yourself, "I really, _really_ want to, but it- it's gonna be bad. It's always bad. And I don't want it to be- I don't want you to-"

"Why do you want to?" he asks, taking both your claws in your hands, and you let him set the wirespool down, fingers twining around the blades of your pincers like he's not worried about getting cut, "Because you feel like it's something you should be able to do, or because you _want_ to?"

You think about it. You think about it _really really hard_ , because he's looking at you really really hard. "I _want_ to," you answer, "But I don't want to hurt you." 

"Then don't hurt me," he gives a soft laugh, "but even if you do… I forgive you in advance." 

Cyclonus leans forward and takes your helm in his hands to kiss you, lips on the rim of your helm casing and you can't help but melt under such attention. It turns you right to jelly. You're a weak mech. 

"Whenever you're ready," he tells you.

"Can we just do it now? I can't bear sitting around thinking about it all the time. I'll get stuck in my own head again and go crazy," you groan, "I wanna do it while I still wanna do it." 

He gives you a long, hard look, like he's debating. 

"Whirl's a control freak," Tailgate says, "Don't make decisions for him."

"Hey," you say.

" _You_ said you didn't want us private comming in front of you," he says, waggling a finger at you. Primus, is this what they talk about? 

"You're right," Cyclonus asserts, obviously coming to a decision, "Very well then. But, on one condition."

"Yeah?"

"If you change your mind, you say so, alright? No grinning and bearing it."

"I can't grin," you huff, but he doesn't break his gaze, "okay, yes, I promise."

Tailgate kicks the wirespool out of his way and crawls back into your lap, wrapping his legs around your waist and kissing your abdomen, "I bet that was all really hard to say," he soothes, "I'm really proud of you." 

You shiver under his touch and try not to think that that's a spectacularly low and pathetic bar, because you're pretty sure he'd give you shit if you knew you felt that way, so even though the thought claws at the edges of your mind, you try to block it out and focus on what you're doing instead. You think about his palms against your sides, soft against your sharp angles.

"Here," says Cyclonus, "I'll go first." You know why he's going first; for all of Tailgate's reassurances, he didn't see the war. He doesn't know old Cybertron like the two of you do. Cyclonus's tolerance is higher. Part of you wants to be sad about that and think he's protecting Tailgate from you, but a more hopeful part of you is more convinced he's protecting you from Tailgate. 

You resist the urge to look away when you hear a click in his internals and his outer plating separates. It opens like a fractal, like a flower, petals peeling away to reveal his open spark chamber and your vents stutter looking at it. He's beautiful. Real high art type stuff, pure light, aqua-lavender and pulsing steadily- irrevocably, undeniably alive. 

You start to reach toward him with one claw before you _remember_ and your motion stops, but he takes your wrist in both hands and guides you back toward him, the blade of one claw daring to get near his spark. Warm-hot and yet neither, this close you can just feel a tingle of _affection-worry-excitement_ emanating from him. It feels different than it did the other times, somehow. Maybe because you know him better. You aren't sure. You feel him shiver and you pull away and take a deep, nervous invent, and then pull your chest open.

It doesn't come apart like his does. It doesn't open like a flower. It opens like cargo bay doors, folding down and cracking open in the middle to flip over sideways. It's efficient, but it isn't pretty. It isn't reverent. It's over too quickly. 

You don't really want to look down at it. You know what it looks like. Dim cyan with flicks of energon-pink in it, it burns and flares like a fire someone poured non-dairy creamer all over. You cast your gaze to the side at the floor, uncertain what to look at and wait for them to voice their concern. 

"Wow," Tailgate breathes. 

"It certainly is volatile," Cyclonus confirms, and you tighten your grip on your ankles, "And beautiful for it. Boldly unique." 

You aren't entirely sure about that, but, at least it's a nice thing to say and you appreciate the effort. You force yourself to laugh, playing it cool. "Sure you still want in on this?"

"Of course," he says, without pausing, "I want all of you." 

You shiver at that. It's a lot. You look down when you feel Tailgate's hands around the edge of your spark casing. 

"Can I touch?" he asks, and you hesitate, then nod. His fingers reach up and into your spark, handling it like it's something delicate. It's all you can do to stay still and not fall right over under the sensation. It's _a lot_ but it's also _really good_ , like a rush of fresh energon through your lines, electrically charged and crackling beneath your armour. 

You're still gasping and panting when he pulls back and scoots out from between the two of you. Cyclonus has a hand on your shoulder to steady you. Tailgate takes one of your claws and squeezes it, holding it in both of his as Cyclonus watches you, waiting for you to reorient. 

"Do you still want to do this?" he asks you. You nod. "I need words," he says, more firmly. 

"I want to do this," you say, as firm as you can. You do. You want so badly for it to go well this time. "I want you." 

"You have me," Cyclonus says. You lean forward and he meets you there, pulling you flush against his front with a gentle hold, supportive but not restrictive. Careful.

Everything goes white hot the second your sparks get near each other. The rush of sensory input is _blinding._ It's disorienting, because you can feel everything your body is feeling but everything his body is feeling, too. Beyond the physical sensation you're buried under the overwhelming _love-care-brace-concern-love_ and it's such a powerful mix you might drown in it. It's everything, in your lines, in your head. You are sturdy and solid and full of love and worry. You are so very worried about this disaster mech you've fallen in love with, who sees the world so strangely, who is so much more vulnerable than he thinks he is. Your lover makes every step so difficult, forces you to pull him from his self loathing like pulling teeth and even still, even with all of that, he is worth the effort, he is worth the commitment, he is worth the energy, he is worthy of love-

You pull back, gasping, at the limit of what you can handle. You pant, vents flared, leaning against your trembling elbows before they give out and you fall flat on your back. That was _a lot_.

"Birdy?" a voice asks somewhere, "Are you okay?" 

"Need a klik," you manage to choke out, chest heaving. Tiny hands stroke your chest and guide it closed again, and that definitely helps your vents cycle correctly through your frame again. "I'm okay."

"Good?" Cyclonus asks, and you crack open your optic and force yourself back up on your elbows, "Bad?"

"Good," you say, it was definitely _good_ , just, wow, it's never been so _much_ before, "Overwhelming, but good." You pause. "...Good… for you?" 

"Good," he says, "though, I would be remiss not to say I'm astonished how scared you are."

"What!" you cry indignantly, "I ain't scared of nothin'!"

"You were _very_ scared to do this," he says, completely ignoring you, touching your helm casing and running his thumb along the edge, "Thank you for trusting me." 

You feel laid out, thinking of how vulnerable he saw you and how antithetical that is to how you see yourself. Part of you wants to say something mean, tell him you aren't scared of anything and you don't trust anyone, but you're starting to think that part of you is being intentionally difficult and you tamp it down, stubbornly, and say the most opposite thing of what you want to say that you can think of. "Thanks for being so patient with me."

Tailgate guides your helm to the side so he can nuzzle you with his faceplate, "Always." 

"I, uh, I don't think I'm up for any more than that right now," you admit, apologetically- you feel bad for leaving Tailgate out, but he shakes his head against yours and laughs.

"I'll get my turn," he says, tapping his facemask to your front, a static kiss, "I'm so proud of you." 

You push back, the weird half kisses you two do, sickeningly sweet tactile face nuzzling, and then grab him like a stuffed animal and roll over while he squeaks. 

"I am plum tuckered," you announce, clutching him against the flat of your cockpit while he giggles, "Recharge time."

Cyclonus smiles at you. You like his smiles. You hope you get more of them.

* * *

Your high runs out a few hours later when you wake up in the middle of the night. The habsuite is dark, the ship quiet but for the thrum of it's engine quietly in the walls and the gentle ventilation cycles of the two mechs you're in berth with. 

Boy. You've had a night.

You definitely liked that. That was really good. Was it really good for him? Would he have told you honestly if it hadn't been? You still feel bad for leaving Tailgate out. You've got your arms around him and his fingers are gripped around your wrist rotors, holding them to his body. You take up a lot of berth space. Too much?

Man, they really did say they wanted to do rites with you, didn't they? At some point. Now? Later? When do you do that? How do you know when you're supposed to do that? Would it be weird to ask about?

You're still fretting when you notice an unread message from Tailgate in your HUD, waiting for you to wake up. You open it.

[00:02:05] Tailgate: Love you!!

You squirm and tighten your grip around him, pulling him closer. He makes a sound, something between a squeak and a mumble, but doesn't wake. You need to stop thinking so much. You need to stop hesitating. You're in too deep now to save yourself from total sparkbreak if anything goes wrong, so you may as well commit. 

[00:04:27] Whirl: love you, too.

You close your HUD and set your helm back down above his, letting the rhythm of Cyclonus's vent cycle against your spinal strut lull you back in recharge. 


End file.
